North and South by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

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mere helpless querulousness. She found that the children weretruer and simpler mourners than the widow. Daddy had been a kinddaddy to them; each could tell, in their eager stammering way, ofsome tenderness shown some indulgence granted by the lost father.

'Is yon thing upstairs really him? it doesna look like him. I'mfeared on it, and I never was feared o' daddy.'

Margaret's heart bled to hear that the mother, in her selfishrequirement of sympathy, had taken her children upstairs to seetheir disfigured father. It was intermingling the coarseness ofhorror with the profoundness of natural grief She tried to turntheir thoughts in some other direction; on what they could do formother; on what--for this was a more efficacious way of puttingit--what father would have wished them to do. Margaret was moresuccessful than Mr. Hale in her efforts. The children seeingtheir little duties lie in action close around them, began to tryeach one to do something that she suggested towards redding upthe slatternly room. But her father set too high a standard, andtoo abstract a view, before the indolent invalid. She could notrouse her torpid mind into any vivid imagination of what herhusband's misery might have been before he had resorted to thelast terrible step; she could only look upon it as it affectedherself; she could not enter into the enduring mercy of the Godwho had not specially interposed to prevent the water fromdrowning her prostrate husband; and although she was secretlyblaming her husband for having fallen into such drear despair,and denying that he had any excuse for his last rash act, she wasinveterate in her abuse of all who could by any possibility besupposed to have driven him to such desperation. The masters--Mr.Thornton in particular, whose mill had been attacked by Boucher,and who, after the warrant had been issued for his apprehensionon the charge of rioting, had caused it to be withdrawn,--theUnion, of which Higgins was the representative to the poorwoman,--the children so numerous, so hungry, and so noisy--allmade up one great army of personal enemies, whose fault it wasthat she was now a helpless widow.

Margaret heard enough of this unreasonableness to dishearten her;and when they came away she found it impossible to cheer herfather.

'It is the town life,' said she. 'Their nerves are quickened bythe haste and bustle and speed of everything around them, to saynothing of the confinement in these pent-up houses, which ofitself is enough to induce depression and worry of spirits. Nowin the country, people live so much more out of doors, evenchildren, and even in the winter.'

'But people must live in towns. And in the country some get suchstagnant habits of mind that they are almost fatalists.'

'Yes; I acknowledge that. I suppose each mode of life producesits own trials and its own temptations. The dweller in towns mustfind it as difficult to be patient and calm, as the country-bredman must find it to be active, and equal to unwonted emergencies.Both must find it hard to realise a future of any kind; the onebecause the present is so living and hurrying and close aroundhim; the other because his life tempts him to revel in the meresense of animal existence, not knowing of, and consequently notcaring for any pungency of pleasure for the attainment of whichhe can plan, and deny himself and look forward.'

'And thus both the necessity for engrossment, and the stupidcontent in the present, produce the same effects. But this poorMrs. Boucher! how little we can do for her.'

'And yet we dare not leave her without our efforts, although theymay seem so useless. Oh papa! it's a hard world to live in!'

'So it is, my child. We feel it so just now, at any rate; but wehave been very happy, even in the midst of our sorrow. What apleasure Frederick's visit was!'

'Yes, that it was,' said Margaret; brightly. 'It was such acharming, snatched, forbidden thing.' But she suddenly stoppedspeaking. She had spoiled the remembrance of Frederick's visit toherself by her own cowardice. Of all faults the one she mostdespised in others was the want of bravery; the meanness of heartwhich leads to untruth. And here had she been guilty of it! Thencame the thought of Mr. Thornton's cognisance of her falsehood.She wondered if she should have minded detection half so muchfrom any one else. She tried herself in imagination with her AuntShaw and Edith; with her father; with Captain and Mr. Lennox;with Frederick. The thought of the last knowing what she haddone, even in his own behalf, was the most painful, for thebrother and sister were in the first flush of their mutual regardand love; but even any fall in Frederick's opinion was as nothingto the shame, the shrinking shame she felt at the thought ofmeeting Mr. Thornton again. And yet she longed to see him, to getit over; to understand where she stood in his opinion. Her cheeksburnt as she recollected how proudly she had implied an objectionto trade (in the early days of their acquaintance), because ittoo often led to the deceit of passing off inferior for superiorgoods, in the one branch; of assuming credit for wealth andresources not possessed, in the other. She remembered Mr.Thornton's look of calm disdain, as in few words he gave her tounderstand that, in the great scheme of commerce, alldishonourable ways of acting were sure to prove injurious in thelong run, and that, testing such actions simply according to thepoor standard of success, there was folly and not wisdom in allsuch, and every kind of deceit in trade, as well as in otherthings. She remembered--she, then strong in her own untemptedtruth--asking him, if he did not think that buying in thecheapest and selling in the dearest market proved some want ofthe transparent justice which is so intimately connected with theidea of truth: and she had used the word chivalric--and herfather had corrected her with the higher word, Christian; and sodrawn the argument upon himself, while she sate silent by with aslight feeling of contempt.

No more contempt for her!--no more talk about the chivalric!Henceforward she must feel humiliated and disgraced in his sight.But when should she see him? Her heart leaped up in apprehensionat every ring of the door-bell; and yet when it fell down tocalmness, she felt strangely saddened and sick at heart at eachdisappointment. It was very evident that her father expected tosee him, and was surprised that he did not come. The truth was,that there were points in their conversation the other night onwhich they had no time then to enlarge; but it had beenunderstood that if possible on the succeeding evening--if notthen, at least the very first evening that Mr. Thornton couldcommand,--they should meet for further discussion. Mr. Hale hadlooked forward to this meeting ever since they had parted. He hadnot yet resumed the instruction to his pupils, which he hadrelinquished at the commencement of his wife's more seriousillness, so he had fewer occupations than usual; and the greatinterest of the last day or so (Boucher's suicide) had driven himback with more eagerness than ever upon his speculations. He wasrestless all evening. He kept saying, 'I quite expected to haveseen Mr. Thornton. I think the messenger who brought the booklast night must have had some note, and forgot to deliver it. Doyou think there has been any message left to-day?'

'I will go and inquire, papa,' said Margaret, after the changeson these sentences had been rung once or twice. 'Stay, there's aring!' She sate down instantly, and bent her head attentivelyover her work. She heard a step on the stairs, but it was onlyone, and she knew it was Dixon's. She lifted up her head andsighed, and believed she felt glad.

'It's that Higgins, sir. He wants to see you, or else Miss Hale.Or it might be Miss Hale first, and then you, sir; for he's in astrange kind of way.

'He had better come up here, Dixon; and then he can see us both,and choose which he likes for his listener.'

'Oh! very well, sir. I've no wish to hear what he's got to say,I'm sure; only, if you could see his shoes, I'm sure you'd saythe kitchen was the fitter place.

'He can wipe them, I suppose, said Mr. Hale. So Dixon flung off,to bid him walk up-stairs. She was a little mollified, however,when he looked at his feet with a hesitating air; and then,sitting down on the bottom stair, he took off the offendingshoes, and without a word walked up-stairs.

'Sarvant, sir!' said he, slicking his hair down when he came intothe room. 'If hoo'l excuse me (looking at Margaret) for being i'my stockings; I'se been tramping a' day, and streets is none o'th' cleanest.'

Margaret thought that fatigue might account for the change in hismanner, for he was unusually quiet and subdued; and he hadevidently some difficulty in saying what he came to say.

Mr. Hale's ever-ready sympathy with anything of shyness orhesitation, or want of self-possession, made him come to his aid.

'We shall have tea up directly, and then you'll take a cup withus, Mr. Higgins. I am sure you are tired, if you've been out muchthis wet relaxing day. Margaret, my dear, can't you hasten tea?'

Margaret could only hasten tea by taking the preparation of itinto her own hands, and so offending Dixon, who was emerging outof her sorrow for her late mistress into a very touchy, irritablestate. But Martha, like all who came in contact withMargaret--even Dixon herself, in the long run--felt it a pleasureand an honour to forward any of her wishes; and her readiness,and Margaret's sweet forbearance, soon made Dixon ashamed ofherself.

'Why master and you must always be asking the lower classesup-stairs, since we came to Milton, I cannot understand. Folk atHelstone were never brought higher than the kitchen; and I've letone or two of them know before now that they might think it anhonour to be even there.'

Higgins found it easier to unburden himself to one than to two.After Margaret left the room, he went to the door and assuredhimself that it was shut. Then he came and stood close to Mr.Hale.

'Master,' said he, 'yo'd not guess easy what I've been trampingafter to-day. Special if yo' remember my manner o' talkyesterday. I've been a seeking work. I have' said he. 'I said tomysel', I'd keep a civil tongue in my head, let who would saywhat 'em would. I'd set my teeth into my tongue sooner nor speaki' haste. For that man's sake--yo' understand,' jerking his thumbback in some unknown direction.

'No, I don't,' said Mr. Hale, seeing he waited for some kind ofassent, and completely bewildered as to who 'that man' could be.

'That chap as lies theer,' said he, with another jerk. 'Him aswent and drownded himself, poor chap! I did na' think he'd got itin him to lie still and let th' water creep o'er him till hedied. Boucher, yo' know.'

'Yes, I know now,' said Mr. Hale. 'Go back to what you weresaying: you'd not speak in haste----'

'For his sake. Yet not for his sake; for where'er he is, andwhate'er, he'll ne'er know other clemming or cold again; but forthe wife's sake, and the bits o' childer.'

'I have telled yo',' said Higgins, a little surprised at Mr.Hale's agitation. 'I would na ask for work for mysel'; but them'sleft as a charge on me. I reckon, I would ha guided Boucher to abetter end; but I set him off o' th' road, and so I mun answerfor him.'

'Theer, theer, master! Theer's ne'er a man, to call a man,amongst us, but what would do th' same; ay, and better too; for,belie' me, I'se ne'er got a stroke o' work, nor yet a sight ofany. For all I telled Hamper that, let alone his pledge--which Iwould not sign--no, I could na, not e'en for this--he'd ne'er ha'such a worker on his mill as I would be--he'd ha' none o' me--nomore would none o' th' others. I'm a poor black fecklesssheep--childer may clem for aught I can do, unless, parson, yo'dhelp me?'

'Help you! How? I would do anything,--but what can I do?'

'Miss there'--for Margaret had re-entered the room, and stoodsilent, listening--'has often talked grand o' the South, and theways down there. Now I dunnot know how far off it is, but I'vebeen thinking if I could get 'em down theer, where food is cheapand wages good, and all the folk, rich and poor, master and man,friendly like; yo' could, may be, help me to work. I'm notforty-five, and I've a deal o' strength in me, measter.'

'But what kind of work could you do, my man?'

'Well, I reckon I could spade a bit----'

'And for that,' said Margaret, stepping forwards, 'for anythingyou could do, Higgins, with the best will in the world, youwould, may be, get nine shillings a week; may be ten, at theoutside. Food is much the same as here, except that you mighthave a little garden----'

'The childer could work at that,' said he. 'I'm sick o' Miltonanyways, and Milton is sick o' me.'

'You must not go to the South,' said Margaret, 'for all that. Youcould not stand it. You would have to be out all weathers. Itwould kill you with rheumatism. The mere bodily work at your timeof life would break you down. The fare is far different to whatyou have been accustomed to.'

'I'se nought particular about my meat,' said he, as if offended.

'But you've reckoned on having butcher's meat once a day, ifyou're in work; pay for that out of your ten shillings, and keepthose poor children if you can. I owe it to you--since it's myway of talking that has set you off on this idea--to put it allclear before you. You would not bear the dulness of the life; youdon't know what it is; it would eat you away like rust. Thosethat have lived there all their lives, are used to soaking in thestagnant waters. They labour on, from day to day, in the greatsolitude of steaming fields--never speaking or lifting up theirpoor, bent, downcast heads. The hard spade-work robs their brainof life; the sameness of their toil deadens their imagination;they don't care to meet to talk over thoughts and speculations,even of the weakest, wildest kind, after their work is done; theygo home brutishly tired, poor creatures! caring for nothing butfood and rest. You could not stir them up into any companionship,which you get in a town as plentiful as the air you breathe,whether it be good or bad--and that I don't know; but I do know,that you of all men are not one to bear a life among suchlabourers. What would be peace to them would be eternal frettingto you. Think no more of it, Nicholas, I beg. Besides, you couldnever pay to get mother and children all there--that's one goodthing.'

'I've reckoned for that. One house mun do for us a', and thefurniture o' t'other would go a good way. And men theer mun havetheir families to keep--mappen six or seven childer. God help'em!' said he, more convinced by his own presentation of thefacts than by all Margaret had said, and suddenly renouncing theidea, which had but recently formed itself in a brain worn out bythe day's fatigue and anxiety. 'God help 'em! North an' Southhave each getten their own troubles. If work's sure and steadytheer, labour's paid at starvation prices; while here we'n ruckso' money coming in one quarter, and ne'er a farthing th' next.For sure, th' world is in a confusion that passes me or any otherman to understand; it needs fettling, and who's to fettle it, ifit's as yon folks say, and there's nought but what we see?'

Mr. Hale was busy cutting bread and butter; Margaret was glad ofthis, for she saw that Higgins was better left to himself: thatif her father began to speak ever so mildly on the subject ofHiggins's thoughts, the latter would consider himself challengedto an argument, and would feel himself bound to maintain his ownground. She and her father kept up an indifferent conversationuntil Higgins, scarcely aware whether he ate or not, had made avery substantial meal. Then he pushed his chair away from thetable, and tried to take an interest in what they were saying;but it was of no use; and he fell back into dreamy gloom.Suddenly, Margaret said (she had been thinking of it for sometime, but the words had stuck in her throat), 'Higgins, have youbeen to Marlborough Mills to seek for work?'

'Thornton's?' asked he. 'Ay, I've been at Thornton's.'

'And what did he say?'

'Such a chap as me is not like to see the measter. Th' o'erlookerbid me go and be d----d.'

'I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale. 'He might nothave given you work, but he would not have used such language.'

'As to th' language, I'm welly used to it; it dunnot matter tome. I'm not nesh mysel' when I'm put out. It were th' fact that Iwere na wanted theer, no more nor ony other place, as I minded.'

'But I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton,' repeated Margaret. 'Wouldyou go again--it's a good deal to ask, I know--but would you goto-morrow and try him? I should be so glad if you would.'

'I'm afraid it would be of no use,' said Mr. Hale, in a lowvoice. 'It would be better to let me speak to him.' Margaretstill looked at Higgins for his answer. Those grave soft eyes ofhers were difficult to resist. He gave a great sigh.

'It would tax my pride above a bit; if it were for mysel', Icould stand a deal o' clemming first; I'd sooner knock him downthan ask a favour from him. I'd a deal sooner be flogged mysel';but yo're not a common wench, axing yo'r pardon, nor yet have yo'common ways about yo'. I'll e'en make a wry face, and go at itto-morrow. Dunna yo' think that he'll do it. That man has it inhim to be burnt at the stake afore he'll give in. I do it foryo'r sake, Miss Hale, and it's first time in my life as e'er Igive way to a woman. Neither my wife nor Bess could e'er say thatmuch again me.'

'All the more do I thank you,' said Margaret, smiling. 'Though Idon't believe you: I believe you have just given way to wife anddaughter as much as most men.'

'And as to Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale, 'I'll give you a note tohim, which, I think I may venture to say, will ensure you ahearing.'

'I thank yo' kindly, sir, but I'd as lief stand on my own bottom.I dunnot stomach the notion of having favour curried for me, byone as doesn't know the ins and outs of the quarrel. Meddling'twixt master and man is liker meddling 'twixt husband and wifethan aught else: it takes a deal o' wisdom for to do ony good.I'll stand guard at the lodge door. I'll stand there fro' six inthe morning till I get speech on him. But I'd liefer sweep th'streets, if paupers had na' got hold on that work. Dunna yo'hope, miss. There'll be more chance o' getting milk out of aflint. I wish yo' a very good night, and many thanks to yo'.'

'You'll find your shoe's by the kitchen fire; I took them thereto dry,' said Margaret.

He turned round and looked at her steadily, and then he brushedhis lean hand across his eyes and went his way.

'How proud that man is!' said her father, who was a littleannoyed at the manner in which Higgins had declined hisintercession with Mr. Thornton.

'He is,' said Margaret; 'but what grand makings of a man thereare in him, pride and all.'

'It's amusing to see how he evidently respects the part in Mr.Thornton's character which is like his own.'

'There's granite in all these northern people, papa, is therenot?'

'There was none in poor Boucher, I am afraid; none in his wifeeither.'

'I should guess from their tones that they had Irish blood inthem. I wonder what success he'll have to-morrow. If he and Mr.Thornton would speak out together as man to man--if Higgins wouldforget that Mr. Thornton was a master, and speak to him as hedoes to us--and if Mr. Thornton would be patient enough to listento him with his human heart, not with his master's ears--'

'You are getting to do Mr. Thornton justice at last, Margaret,'said her father, pinching her ear.

Margaret had a strange choking at her heart, which made herunable to answer. 'Oh!' thought she, 'I wish I were a man, that Icould go and force him to express his disapprobation, and tellhim honestly that I knew I deserved it. It seems hard to lose himas a friend just when I had begun to feel his value. How tenderhe was with dear mamma! If it were only for her sake, I wish hewould come, and then at least I should know how much I was abasedin his eyes.'

CHAPTER XXXVIII

PROMISES FULFILLED

'Then proudly, proudly up she rose,Tho' the tear was in her e'e,"Whate'er ye say, think what ye may,Ye's get na word frae me!"'SCOTCH BALLAD.

It was not merely that Margaret was known to Mr. Thornton to havespoken falsely,--though she imagined that for this reason onlywas she so turned in his opinion,--but that this falsehood ofhers bore a distinct reference in his mind to some other lover.He could not forget the fond and earnest look that had passedbetween her and some other man--the attitude of familiarconfidence, if not of positive endearment. The thought of thisperpetually stung him; it was a picture before his eyes, whereverhe went and whatever he was doing. In addition to this (and heground his teeth as he remembered it), was the hour, duskytwilight; the place, so far away from home, and comparativelyunfrequented. His nobler self had said at first, that all thislast might be accidental, innocent, justifiable; but once allowher right to love and be beloved (and had he any reason to denyher right?--had not her words been severely explicit when shecast his love away from her?), she might easily have beenbeguiled into a longer walk, on to a later hour than she hadanticipated. But that falsehood! which showed a fatalconsciousness of something wrong, and to be concealed, which wasunlike her. He did her that justice, though all the time it wouldhave been a relief to believe her utterly unworthy of his esteem.It was this that made the misery--that he passionately loved her,and thought her, even with all her faults, more lovely and moreexcellent than any other woman; yet he deemed her so attached tosome other man, so led away by her affection for him as toviolate her truthful nature. The very falsehood that stained her,was a proof how blindly she loved another--this dark, slight,elegant, handsome man--while he himself was rough, and stern, andstrongly made. He lashed himself into an agony of fiercejealousy. He thought of that look, that attitude!--how he wouldhave laid his life at her feet for such tender glances, such fonddetention! He mocked at himself, for having valued the mechanicalway in which she had protected him from the fury of the mob; nowhe had seen how soft and bewitching she looked when with a manshe really loved. He remembered, point by point, the sharpness ofher words--'There was not a man in all that crowd for whom shewould not have done as much, far more readily than for him.' Heshared with the mob, in her desire of averting bloodshed fromthem; but this man, this hidden lover, shared with nobody; he hadlooks, words, hand-cleavings, lies, concealment, all to himself.

Mr. Thornton was conscious that he had never been so irritable ashe was now, m all his life long; he felt inclined to give a shortabrupt answer, more like a bark than a speech, to every one thatasked him a question; and this consciousness hurt his pride hehad always piqued himself on his self-control, and controlhimself he would. So the manner was subdued to a quietdeliberation, but the matter was even harder and sterner thancommon. He was more than usually silent at home; employing hisevenings in a continual pace backwards and forwards, which wouldhave annoyed his mother exceedingly if it had been practised byany one else; and did not tend to promote any forbearance on herpart even to this beloved son.

'Can you stop--can you sit down for a moment? I have something tosay to you, if you would give up that everlasting walk, walk,walk.'

He sat down instantly, on a chair against the wall.

'I want to speak to you about Betsy. She says she must leave us;that her lover's death has so affected her spirits she can't giveher heart to her work.'

'Very well. I suppose other cooks are to be met with.'

'That's so like a man. It's not merely the cooking, it is thatshe knows all the ways of the house. Besides, she tells mesomething about your friend Miss Hale.'

'Miss Hale is no friend of mine. Mr. Hale is my friend.'

'I am glad to hear you say so, for if she had been your friend,what Betsy says would have annoyed you.'

'Let me hear it,' said he, with the extreme quietness of mannerhe had been assuming for the last few days.

'Betsy says, that the night on which her lover--I forget hisname--for she always calls him "he"----'

'Leonards.'

'The night on which Leonards was last seen at the station--whenhe was last seen on duty, in fact--Miss Hale was there, walkingabout with a young man who, Betsy believes, killed Leonards bysome blow or push.'

'Leonards was not killed by any blow or push.'

'How do you know?'

'Because I distinctly put the question to the surgeon of theInfirmary. He told me there was an internal disease of longstanding, caused by Leonards' habit of drinking to excess; thatthe fact of his becoming rapidly worse while in a state ofintoxication, settled the question as to whether the last fatalattack was caused by excess of drinking, or the fall.'

'The fall! What fall?'

'Caused by the blow or push of which Betsy speaks.'

'Then there was a blow or push?'

'I believe so.'

'And who did it?'

'As there was no inquest, in consequence of the doctor's opinion,I cannot tell you.'

'But Miss Hale was there?'

No answer.

'And with a young man?'

Still no answer. At last he said: 'I tell you, mother, that therewas no inquest--no inquiry. No judicial inquiry, I mean.'

'Betsy says that Woolmer (some man she knows, who is in agrocer's shop out at Crampton) can swear that Miss Hale was atthe station at that hour, walking backwards and forwards with ayoung man.'

'I don't see what we have to do with that. Miss Hale is atliberty to please herself.'

'I'm glad to hear you say so,' said Mrs. Thornton, eagerly. 'Itcertainly signifies very little to us--not at all to you, afterwhat has passed! but I--I made a promise to Mrs. Hale, that Iwould not allow her daughter to go wrong without advising andremonstrating with her. I shall certainly let her know my opinionof such conduct.'

'I do not see any harm in what she did that evening,' said Mr.Thornton, getting up, and coming near to his mother; he stood bythe chimney-piece with his face turned away from the room.

'You would not have approved of Fanny's being seen out, afterdark, in rather a lonely place, walking about with a young man. Isay nothing of the taste which could choose the time, when hermother lay unburied, for such a promenade. Should you have likedyour sister to have been noticed by a grocer's assistant fordoing so?'

'In the first place, as it is not many years since I myself was adraper's assistant, the mere circumstance of a grocer's assistantnoticing any act does not alter the character of the act to me.And in the next place, I see a great deal of difference betweenMiss Hale and Fanny. I can imagine that the one may have weightyreasons, which may and ought to make her overlook any seemingImpropriety in her conduct. I never knew Fanny have weightyreasons for anything. Other people must guard her. I believe MissHale is a guardian to herself'

'A pretty character of your sister, indeed! Really, John, onewould have thought Miss Hale had done enough to make youclear-sighted. She drew you on to an offer, by a bold display ofpretended regard for you,--to play you off against this veryyoung man, I've no doubt. Her whole conduct is clear to me now.You believe he is her lover, I suppose--you agree to that.'

He turned round to his mother; his face was very gray and grim.'Yes, mother. I do believe he is her lover.' When he had spoken,he turned round again; he writhed himself about, like one inbodily pain. He leant his face against his hand. Then before shecould speak, he turned sharp again:

'Mother. He is her lover, whoever he is; but she may need helpand womanly counsel;--there may be difficulties or temptationswhich I don't know. I fear there are. I don't want to know whatthey are; but as you have ever been a good--ay! and a tendermother to me, go to her, and gain her confidence, and tell herwhat is best to be done. I know that something is wrong; somedread, must be a terrible torture to her.'

'For God's sake, John!' said his mother, now really shocked,'what do you mean? What do you mean? What do you know?'

He did not reply to her.

'John! I don't know what I shan't think unless you speak. Youhave no right to say what you have done against her.'

'Not against her, mother! I ~could~ not speak against her.'

'Well! you have no right to say what you have done, unless yousay more. These half-expressions are what ruin a woman'scharacter.'

'Her character! Mother, you do not dare--' he faced about, andlooked into her face with his flaming eyes. Then, drawing himselfup into determined composure and dignity, he said, 'I will notsay any more than this, which is neither more nor less than thesimple truth, and I am sure you believe me,--I have good reasonto believe, that Miss Hale is in some strait and difficultyconnected with an attachment which, of itself, from my knowledgeof Miss Hale's character, is perfectly innocent and right. Whatmy reason is, I refuse to tell. But never let me hear any one saya word against her, implying any more serious imputation thanthat she now needs the counsel of some kind and gentle woman. Youpromised Mrs. Hale to be that woman!'

No!' said Mrs. Thornton. 'I am happy to say, I did not promisekindness and gentleness, for I felt at the time that it might beout of my power to render these to one of Miss Hale's characterand disposition. I promised counsel and advice, such as I wouldgive to my own daughter; I shall speak to her as I would do toFanny, if she had gone gallivanting with a young man in the dusk.I shall speak with relation to the circumstances I know, withoutbeing influenced either one way or another by the "strongreasons" which you will not confide to me. Then I shall havefulfilled my promise, and done my duty.'

'She will never bear it,' said he passionately.

'She will have to bear it, if I speak in her dead mother's name.'

'Well!' said he, breaking away, 'don't tell me any more about it.I cannot endure to think of it. It will be better that you shouldspeak to her any way, than that she should not be spoken to atall.--Oh! that look of love!' continued he, between his teeth, ashe bolted himself into his own private room. 'And that cursedlie; which showed some terrible shame in the background, to bekept from the light in which I thought she lived perpetually! Oh,Margaret, Margaret! Mother, how you have tortured me! Oh!Margaret, could you not have loved me? I am but uncouth and hard,but I would never have led you into any falsehood for me.'

The more Mrs. Thornton thought over what her son had said, inpleading for a merciful judgment for Margaret's indiscretion, themore bitterly she felt inclined towards her. She took a savagepleasure in the idea of 'speaking her mind' to her, in the guiseof fulfilment of a duty. She enjoyed the thought of showingherself untouched by the 'glamour,' which she was well awareMargaret had the power of throwing over many people. She snortedscornfully over the picture of the beauty of her victim; her jetblack hair, her clear smooth skin, her lucid eyes would not helpto save her one word of the just and stern reproach which Mrs.Thornton spent half the night in preparing to her mind.

'Is Miss Hale within?' She knew she was, for she had seen her atthe window, and she had her feet inside the little hall beforeMartha had half answered her question.

Margaret was sitting alone, writing to Edith, and giving her manyparticulars of her mother's last days. It was a softeningemployment, and she had to brush away the unbidden tears as Mrs.Thornton was announced.

She was so gentle and ladylike in her mode of reception that hervisitor was somewhat daunted; and it became impossible to utterthe speech, so easy of arrangement with no one to address it to.Margaret's low rich voice was softer than usual; her manner moregracious, because in her heart she was feeling very grateful toMrs. Thornton for the courteous attention of her call. Sheexerted herself to find subjects of interest for conversation;praised Martha, the servant whom Mrs. Thornton had found forthem; had asked Edith for a little Greek air, about which she hadspoken to Miss Thornton. Mrs. Thornton was fairly discomfited.Her sharp Damascus blade seemed out of place, and useless amongrose-leaves. She was silent, because she was trying to taskherself up to her duty At last, she stung herself into itsperformance by a suspicion which, in spite of all probability,she allowed to cross her mind, that all this sweetness was put onwith a view of propitiating Mr. Thornton; that, somehow, theother attachment had fallen through, and that it suited MissHale's purpose to recall her rejected lover. Poor Margaret! therewas perhaps so much truth in the suspicion as this: that Mrs.Thornton was the mother of one whose regard she valued, andfeared to have lost; and this thought unconsciously added to hernatural desire of pleasing one who was showing her kindness byher visit. Mrs. Thornton stood up to go, but yet she seemed tohave something more to say. She cleared her throat and began:

'Miss Hale, I have a duty to perform. I promised your poor motherthat, as far as my poor judgment went, I would not allow you toact in any way wrongly, or (she softened her speech down a littlehere) inadvertently, without remonstrating; at least, withoutoffering advice, whether you took it or not.'

Margaret stood before her, blushing like any culprit, with hereyes dilating as she gazed at Mrs. Thornton. She thought she hadcome to speak to her about the falsehood she had told--that Mr.Thornton had employed her to explain the danger she had exposedherself to, of being confuted in full court! and although herheart sank to think he had not rather chosen to come himself, andupbraid her, and receive her penitence, and restore her again tohis good opinion, yet she was too much humbled not to bear anyblame on this subject patiently and meekly.

Mrs. Thornton went on:

'At first, when I heard from one of my servants, that you hadbeen seen walking about with a gentleman, so far from home as theOutwood station, at such a time of the evening, I could hardlybelieve it. But my son, I am sorry to say, confirmed her story.It was indiscreet, to say the least; many a young woman has losther character before now----'

Margaret's eyes flashed fire. This was a new idea--this was tooinsulting. If Mrs. Thornton had spoken to her about the lie shehad told, well and good--she would have owned it, and humiliatedherself But to interfere with her conduct--to speak of hercharacter! she--Mrs. Thornton, a mere stranger--it was tooimpertinent! She would not answer her--not one word. Mrs.Thornton saw the battle-spirit in Margaret's eyes, and it called.up her combativeness also.

'For your mother's sake, I have thought it right to warn youagainst such improprieties; they must degrade you in the long runin the estimation of the world, even if in fact they do not leadyou to positive harm.'

'For my mother's sake,' said Margaret, in a tearful voice, 'Iwill bear much; but I cannot bear everything. She never meant meto be exposed to insult, I am sure.'

'Insult, Miss Hale!'

'Yes, madam,' said Margaret more steadily, 'it is insult. What doyou know of me that should lead you to suspect--Oh!' said she,breaking down, and covering her face with her hands--'I know now,Mr. Thornton has told you----'

'No, Miss Hale,' said Mrs. Thornton, her truthfulness causing herto arrest the confession Margaret was on the point of making,though her curiosity was itching to hear it. 'Stop. Mr. Thorntonhas told me nothing. You do not know my son. You are not worthyto know him. He said this. Listen, young lady, that you mayunderstand, if you can, what sort of a man you rejected. ThisMilton manufacturer, his great tender heart scorned as it wasscorned, said to me only last night, "Go to her. I have goodreason to know that she is in some strait, arising out of someattachment; and she needs womanly counsel." I believe those werehis very words. Farther than that--beyond admitting the fact ofyour being at the Outwood station with a gentleman, on theevening of the twenty-sixth--he has said nothing--not one wordagainst you. If he has knowledge of anything which should makeyou sob so, he keeps it to himself.'

Margaret's face was still hidden in her hands, the fingers ofwhich were wet with tears. Mrs. Thornton was a little mollified.

'Come, Miss Hale. There may be circumstances, I'll allow, that,if explained, may take off from the seeming impropriety.'

Still no answer. Margaret was considering what to say; she wishedto stand well with Mrs. Thornton; and yet she could not, mightnot, give any explanation. Mrs. Thornton grew impatient.

'I shall be sorry to break off an acquaintance; but for Fanny'ssake--as I told my son, if Fanny had done so we should considerit a great disgrace--and Fanny might be led away----'

'I can give you no explanation,' said Margaret, in a low voice.'I have done wrong, but not in the way you think or know about. Ithink Mr. Thornton judges me more mercifully than you;'--she hadhard work to keep herself from choking with her tears--'but, Ibelieve, madam, you mean to do rightly.'

'Thank you,' said Mrs. Thornton, drawing herself up; 'I was notaware that my meaning was doubted. It is the last time I shallinterfere. I was unwilling to consent to do it, when your motherasked me. I had not approved of my son's attachment to you, whileI only suspected it. You did not appear to me worthy of him. Butwhen you compromised yourself as you did at the time of the riot,and exposed yourself to the comments of servants and workpeople,I felt it was no longer right to set myself against my son's wishof proposing to you--a wish, by the way, which he had alwaysdenied entertaining until the day of the riot.' Margaret winced,and drew in her breath with a long, hissing sound; of which,however, Mrs. Thornton took no notice. 'He came; you hadapparently changed your mind. I told my son yesterday, that Ithought it possible, short as was the interval, you might haveheard or learnt something of this other lover----'

'What must you think of me, madam?' asked Margaret, throwing herhead back with proud disdain, till her throat curved outwardslike a swan's. 'You can say nothing more, Mrs. Thornton. Idecline every attempt to justify myself for anything. You mustallow me to leave the room.'

And she swept out of it with the noiseless grace of an offendedprincess. Mrs. Thornton had quite enough of natural humour tomake her feel the ludicrousness of the position in which she wasleft. There was nothing for it but to show herself out. She wasnot particularly annoyed at Margaret's way of behaving. She didnot care enough for her for that. She had taken Mrs. Thornton'sremonstrance to the full as keenly to heart as that ladyexpected; and Margaret's passion at once mollified her visitor,far more than any silence or reserve could have done. It showedthe effect of her words. 'My young lady,' thought Mrs. Thorntonto herself; 'you've a pretty good temper of your own. If John andyou had come together, he would have had to keep a tight handover you, to make you know your place. But I don't think you willgo a-walking again with your beau, at such an hour of the day, ina hurry. You've too much pride and spirit in you for that. I liketo see a girl fly out at the notion of being talked about. Itshows they're neither giddy, nor hold by nature. As for thatgirl, she might be hold, but she'd never be giddy. I'll do herthat justice. Now as to Fanny, she'd be giddy, and not bold.She's no courage in her, poor thing!'

Mr. Thornton was not spending the morning so satisfactorily ashis mother. She, at any rate, was fulfilling her determinedpurpose. He was trying to understand where he stood; what damagethe strike had done him. A good deal of his capital was locked upin new and expensive machinery; and he had also bought cottonlargely, with a view to some great orders which he had in hand.The strike had thrown him terribly behindhand, as to thecompletion of these orders. Even with his own accustomed andskilled workpeople, he would have had some difficulty infulfilling his engagements; as it was, the incompetence of theIrish hands, who had to be trained to their work, at a timerequiring unusual activity, was a daily annoyance.

It was not a favourable hour for Higgins to make his request. Buthe had promised Margaret to do it at any cost. So, though everymoment added to his repugnance, his pride, and his sullenness oftemper, he stood leaning against the dead wall, hour after hour,first on one leg, then on the other. At last the latch wassharply lifted, and out came Mr. Thornton.

'I want for to speak to yo', sir.'

'Can't stay now, my man. I'm too late as it is.'

'Well, sir, I reckon I can wait till yo' come back.'

Mr. Thornton was half way down the street. Higgins sighed. But itwas no use. To catch him in the street was his only chance ofseeing 'the measter;' if he had rung the lodge bell, or even goneup to the house to ask for him, he would have been referred tothe overlooker. So he stood still again, vouchsafing no answer,but a short nod of recognition to the few men who knew and spoketo him, as the crowd drove out of the millyard at dinner-time,and scowling with all his might at the Irish 'knobsticks' who hadjust been imported. At last Mr. Thornton returned.

'What! you there still!'

'Ay, sir. I mun speak to yo'.'

'Come in here, then. Stay, we'll go across the yard; the men arenot come back, and we shall have it to ourselves. These goodpeople, I see, are at dinner;' said he, closing the door of theporter's lodge.

He stopped to speak to the overlooker. The latter said in a lowtone:

'I suppose you know, sir, that that man is Higgins, one of theleaders of the Union; he that made that speech in Hurstfield.'

'No, I didn't,' said Mr. Thornton, looking round sharply at hisfollower. Higgins was known to him by name as a turbulent spirit.

'Come along,' said he, and his tone was rougher than before. 'Itis men such as this,' thought he, 'who interrupt commerce andinjure the very town they live in: mere demagogues, lovers ofpower, at whatever cost to others.'

'Well, sir! what do you want with me?' said Mr. Thornton, facinground at him, as soon as they were in the counting-house of themill.

'I've getten enemies and backbiters, like my betters; but I ne'erheerd o' ony of them calling me o'er-modest,' said Higgins. Hisblood was a little roused by Mr. Thornton's manner, more than byhis words.

Mr. Thornton saw a letter addressed to himself on the table. Hetook it up and read it through. At the end, he looked up andsaid, 'What are you waiting for?'

'An answer to the question I axed.'

'I gave it you before. Don't waste any more of your time.'

'Yo' made a remark, sir, on my impudence: but I were taught thatit was manners to say either "yes" or "no," when I were axed acivil question. I should be thankfu' to yo' if yo'd give me work.Hamper will speak to my being a good hand.'

'I've a notion you'd better not send me to Hamper to ask for acharacter, my man. I might hear more than you'd like.'

'I'd take th' risk. Worst they could say of me is, that I didwhat I thought best, even to my own wrong.'

'You'd better go and try them, then, and see whether they'll giveyou work. I've turned off upwards of a hundred of my best hands,for no other fault than following you and such as you; and d'yethink I'll take you on? I might as well put a firebrand into themidst of the cotton-waste.'

Higgins turned away; then the recollection of Boucher came overhim, and he faced round with the greatest concession he couldpersuade himself to make.

'I'd promise yo', measter, I'd not speak a word as could do harm,if so be yo' did right by us; and I'd promise more: I'd promisethat when I seed yo' going wrong, and acting unfair, I'd speak toyo' in private first; and that would be a fair warning. If yo'and I did na agree in our opinion o' your conduct, yo' might turnme off at an hour's notice.'

'Upon my word, you don't think small beer of yourself! Hamper hashad a loss of you. How came he to let you and your wisdom go?'

'Well, we parted wi' mutual dissatisfaction. I wouldn't gi'e thepledge they were asking; and they wouldn't have me at no rate. SoI'm free to make another engagement; and as I said before, thoughI should na' say it, I'm a good hand, measter, and a steadyman--specially when I can keep fro' drink; and that I shall donow, if I ne'er did afore.'

'That you may have more money laid up for another strike, Isuppose?'

'No! I'd be thankful if I was free to do that; it's for to keepth' widow and childer of a man who was drove mad by themknobsticks o' yourn; put out of his place by a Paddy that did naknow weft fro' warp.'

'Well! you'd better turn to something else, if you've any suchgood intention in your head. I shouldn't advise you to stay inMilton: you're too well known here.'

'If it were summer,' said Higgins, 'I'd take to Paddy's work, andgo as a navvy, or haymaking, or summut, and ne'er see Miltonagain. But it's winter, and th' childer will clem.'

'A pretty navvy you'd make! why, you couldn't do half a day'swork at digging against an Irishman.'

'I'd only charge half-a-day for th' twelve hours, if I could onlydo half-a-day's work in th' time. Yo're not knowing of any place,where they could gi' me a trial, away fro' the mills, if I'm sucha firebrand? I'd take any wage they thought I was worth, for thesake of those childer.'

'Don't you see what you would be? You'd be a knobstick. You'd betaking less wages than the other labourers--all for the sake ofanother man's children. Think how you'd abuse any poor fellow whowas willing to take what he could get to keep his own children.You and your Union would soon be down upon him. No! no! if it'sonly for the recollection of the way in which you've used thepoor knobsticks before now, I say No! to your question. I'll notgive you work. I won't say, I don't believe your pretext forcoming and asking for work; I know nothing about it. It may betrue, or it may not. It's a very unlikely story, at any rate. Letme pass. I'll not give you work. There's your answer.'

'I hear, sir. I would na ha' troubled yo', but that I were bid tocome, by one as seemed to think yo'd getten some soft place in,yo'r heart. Hoo were mistook, and I were misled. But I'm not thefirst man as is misled by a woman.'

'Tell her to mind her own business the next time, instead oftaking up your time and mine too. I believe women are at thebottom of every plague in this world. Be off with you.'

'I'm obleeged to yo' for a' yo'r kindness, measter, and most ofa' for yo'r civil way o' saying good-bye.'

Mr. Thornton did not deign a reply. But, looking out of thewindow a minute after, he was struck with the lean, bent figuregoing out of the yard: the heavy walk was in strange contrastwith the resolute, clear determination of the man to speak tohim. He crossed to the porter's lodge:

'How long has that man Higgins been waiting to speak to me?'

'He was outside the gate before eight o'clock, sir. I think he'sbeen there ever since.'

'And it is now--?'

'Just one, sir.'

'Five hours,' thought Mr. Thornton; 'it's a long time for a manto wait, doing nothing but first hoping and then fearing.'

CHAPTER XXXIX

MAKING FRIENDS

'Nay, I have done; you get no more of me:And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,That thus so clearly I myself am free.'DRAYTON.

Margaret shut herself up in her own room, after she had quittedMrs. Thornton. She began to walk backwards and forwards, in herold habitual way of showing agitation; but, then, rememberingthat in that slightly-built house every step was heard from oneroom to another, she sate down until she heard Mrs. Thornton gosafely out of the house. She forced herself to recollect all theconversation that had passed between them; speech by speech, shecompelled her memory to go through with it. At the end, she roseup, and said to herself, in a melancholy tone:

'At any rate, her words do not touch me; they fall off from me;for I am innocent of all the motives she attributes to me. Butstill, it is hard to think that any one--any woman--can believeall this of another so easily. It is hard and sad. Where I havedone wrong, she does not accuse me--she does not know. He nevertold her: I might have known he would not!'

She lifted up her head, as if she took pride in any delicacy offeeling which Mr. Thornton had shown. Then, as a new thought cameacross her, she pressed her hands tightly together.

'He, too, must take poor Frederick for some lover.' (She blushedas the word passed through her mind.) 'I see it now. It is notmerely that he knows of my falsehood, but he believes that someone else cares for me; and that I----Oh dear!--oh dear! Whatshall I do? What do I mean? Why do I care what he thinks, beyondthe mere loss of his good opinion as regards my telling the truthor not? I cannot tell. But I am very miserable! Oh, how unhappythis last year has been! I have passed out of childhood into oldage. I have had no youth--no womanhood; the hopes of womanhoodhave closed for me--for I shall never marry; and I anticipatecares and sorrows just as if I were an old woman, and with thesame fearful spirit. I am weary of this continual call upon mefor strength. I could bear up for papa; because that is anatural, pious duty. And I think I could bear up against--at anyrate, I could have the energy to resent, Mrs. Thornton's unjust,impertinent suspicions. But it is hard to feel how completely hemust misunderstand me. What has happened to make me so morbidto-day? I do not know. I only know I cannot help it. I must giveway sometimes. No, I will not, though,' said she, springing toher feet. 'I will not--I ~will~ not think of myself and my ownposition. I won't examine into my own feelings. It would be of nouse now. Some time, if I live to be an old woman, I may sit overthe fire, and, looking into the embers, see the life that mighthave been.'

All this time, she was hastily putting on her things to go out,only stopping from time to time to wipe her eyes, with animpatience of gesture at the tears that would come, in spite ofall her bravery.

'I dare say, there's many a woman makes as sad a mistake as Ihave done, and only finds it out too late. And how proudly andimpertinently I spoke to him that day! But I did not know then.It has come upon me little by little, and I don't know where itbegan. Now I won't give way. I shall find it difficult to behavein the same way to him, with this miserable consciousness uponme; but I will be very calm and very quiet, and say very little.But, to be sure, I may not see him; he keeps out of our wayevidently. That would be worse than all. And yet no wonder thathe avoids me, believing what he must about me.'

She went out, going rapidly towards the country, and trying todrown reflection by swiftness of motion.

As she stood on the door-step, at her return, her father came up:

'Good girl!' said he. 'You've been to Mrs. Boucher's. I was justmeaning to go there, if I had time, before dinner.'

'No, papa; I have not,' said Margaret, reddening. 'I neverthought about her. But I will go directly after dinner; I will gowhile you are taking your nap.

Accordingly Margaret went. Mrs. Boucher was very ill; reallyill--not merely ailing. The kind and sensible neighbour, who hadcome in the other day, seemed to have taken charge of everything.Some of the children were gone to the neighbours. Mary Higginshad come for the three youngest at dinner-time; and since thenNicholas had gone for the doctor. He had not come as yet; Mrs.Boucher was dying; and there was nothing to do but to wait.Margaret thought that she should like to know his opinion, andthat she could not do better than go and see the Higginses in themeantime. She might then possibly hear whether Nicholas had beenable to make his application to Mr. Thornton.

She found Nicholas busily engaged in making a penny spin on thedresser, for the amusement of three little children, who wereclinging to him in a fearless manner. He, as well as they, wassmiling at a good long spin; and Margaret thought, that the happylook of interest in his occupation was a good sign. When thepenny stopped spinning, 'lile Johnnie' began to cry.

'Come to me,' said Margaret, taking him off the dresser, andholding him in her arms; she held her watch to his ear, while sheasked Nicholas if he had seen Mr. Thornton.

The look on his face changed instantly.

'Ay!' said he. 'I've seen and heerd too much on him.'

'He refused you, then?' said Margaret, sorrowfully.

'To be sure. I knew he'd do it all long. It's no good expectingmarcy at the hands o' them measters. Yo're a stranger and aforeigner, and aren't likely to know their ways; but I knowedit.'

'I am sorry I asked you. Was he angry? He did not speak to you asHamper did, did he?'

'He weren't o'er-civil!' said Nicholas, spinning the penny again,as much for his own amusement as for that of the children. 'Neveryo' fret, I'm only where I was. I'll go on tramp to-morrow. Igave him as good as I got. I telled him, I'd not that goodopinion on him that I'd ha' come a second time of mysel'; butyo'd advised me for to come, and I were beholden to yo'.'

'You told him I sent you?'

'I dunno' if I ca'd yo' by your name. I dunnot think I did. Isaid, a woman who knew no better had advised me for to come andsee if there was a soft place in his heart.'

'And he--?' asked Margaret.

'Said I were to tell yo' to mind yo'r own business.--That's thelongest spin yet, my lads.--And them's civil words to what heused to me. But ne'er mind. We're but where we was; and I'llbreak stones on th' road afore I let these little uns clem.'

Margaret put the struggling Johnnie out of her arms, back intohis former place on the dresser.

'I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thornton's. I amdisappointed in him.'

There was a slight noise behind her. Both she and Nicholas turnedround at the same moment, and there stood Mr. Thornton, with alook of displeased surprise upon his face. Obeying her swiftimpulse, Margaret passed out before him, saying not a word, onlybowing low to hide the sudden paleness that she felt had comeover her face. He bent equally low in return, and then closed thedoor after her. As she hurried to Mrs. Boucher's, she heard theclang, and it seemed to fill up the measure of her mortification.He too was annoyed to find her there. He had tenderness in hisheart--'a soft place,' as Nicholas Higgins called it; but he hadsome pride in concealing it; he kept it very sacred and safe, andwas jealous of every circumstance that tried to gain admission.But if he dreaded exposure of his tenderness, he was equallydesirous that all men should recognise his justice; and he feltthat he had been unjust, in giving so scornful a hearing to anyone who had waited, with humble patience, for five hours, tospeak to him. That the man had spoken saucily to him when he hadthe opportunity, was nothing to Mr. Thornton. He rather liked himfor it; and he was conscious of his own irritability of temper atthe time, which probably made them both quits. It was the fivehours of waiting that struck Mr. Thornton. He had not five hoursto spare himself; but one hour--two hours, of his hardpenetrating intellectual, as well as bodily labour, did he giveup to going about collecting evidence as to the truth ofHiggins's story, the nature of his character, the tenor of hislife. He tried not to be, but was convinced that all that Higginshad said. was true. And then the conviction went in, as if bysome spell, and touched the latent tenderness of his heart; thepatience of the man, the simple generosity of the motive (for hehad learnt about the quarrel between Boucher and Higgins), madehim forget entirely the mere reasonings of justice, and overleapthem by a diviner instinct. He came to tell Higgins he would givehim work; and he was more annoyed to find Margaret there than byhearing her last words, for then he understood that she was thewoman who had urged Higgins to come to him; and he dreaded theadmission of any thought of her, as a motive to what he was doingsolely because it was right.

'So that was the lady you spoke of as a woman?' said heindignantly to Higgins. 'You might have told me who she was.

'And then, maybe, yo'd ha' spoken of her more civil than yo' did;yo'd getten a mother who might ha' kept yo'r tongue in check whenyo' were talking o' women being at the root o' all the plagues.'

'Of course you told that to Miss Hale?'

'In coorse I did. Leastways, I reckon I did. I telled her sheweren't to meddle again in aught that concerned yo'.'

'Whose children are those--yours?' Mr. Thornton had a pretty goodnotion whose they were, from what he had heard; but he feltawkward in turning the conversation round from this unpromisingbeginning.

Mr. Thornton was silent for a moment; then he said: 'No more haveI. I remember what I said. I spoke to you about those children ina way I had no business to do. I did not believe you. I could nothave taken care of another man's children myself, if he had actedtowards me as I hear Boucher did towards you. But I know now thatyou spoke truth. I beg your pardon.'

Higgins did not turn round, or immediately respond to this. Butwhen he did speak, it was in a softened tone, although the wordswere gruff enough.

'Yo've no business to go prying into what happened betweenBoucher and me. He's dead, and I'm sorry. That's enough.'

'So it is. Will you take work with me? That's what I came toask.'

Higgins's obstinacy wavered, recovered strength, and stood firm.He would not speak. Mr. Thornton would not ask again. Higgins'seye fell on the children.

'Yo've called me impudent, and a liar, and a mischief-maker, andyo' might ha' said wi' some truth, as I were now and then givento drink. An' I ha' called you a tyrant, an' an oud bull-dog, anda hard, cruel master; that's where it stands. But for th'childer. Measter, do yo' think we can e'er get on together?'

'Well!' said Mr. Thornton, half-laughing, 'it was not my proposalthat we should go together. But there's one comfort, on your ownshowing. We neither of us can think much worse of the other thanwe do now.'

'That's true,' said Higgins, reflectively. 'I've been thinking,ever sin' I saw you, what a marcy it were yo' did na take me on,for that I ne'er saw a man whom I could less abide. But that'smaybe been a hasty judgment; and work's work to such as me. So,measter, I'll come; and what's more, I thank yo'; and that's adeal fro' me,' said he, more frankly, suddenly turning round andfacing Mr. Thornton fully for the first time.

'And this is a deal from me,' said Mr. Thornton, giving Higgins'shand a good grip. 'Now mind you come sharp to your time,'continued he, resuming the master. 'I'll have no laggards at mymill. What fines we have, we keep pretty sharply. And the firsttime I catch you making mischief, off you go. So now you knowwhere you are.'

'Yo' spoke of my wisdom this morning. I reckon I may bring it wi'me; or would yo' rayther have me 'bout my brains?'

''Bout your brains if you use them for meddling with my business;with your brains if you can keep them to your own.'

'Your business has not begun yet, and mine stands still for me.So good afternoon.'

Just before Mr. Thornton came up to Mrs. Boucher's door, Margaretcame out of it. She did not see him; and he followed her forseveral yards, admiring her light and easy walk, and her tall andgraceful figure. But, suddenly, this simple emotion of pleasurewas tainted, poisoned by jealousy. He wished to overtake her, andspeak to her, to see how she would receive him, now she must knowhe was aware of some other attachment. He wished too, but of thiswish he was rather ashamed, that she should know that he hadjustified her wisdom in sending Higgins to him to ask for work;and had repented him of his morning's decision. He came up toher. She started.

'Allow me to say, Miss Hale, that you were rather premature inexpressing your disappointment. I have taken Higgins on.'

'I am glad of it,' said she, coldly.

'He tells me, he repeated to you, what I said this morningabout--' Mr. Thornton hesitated. Margaret took it up:

'About women not meddling. You had a perfect right to expressyour opinion, which was a very correct one, I have no doubt.But,' she went on a little more eagerly, 'Higgins did not quitetell you the exact truth.' The word 'truth,' reminded her of herown untruth, and she stopped short, feeling exceedinglyuncomfortable.

Mr. Thornton at first was puzzled to account for her silence; andthen he remembered the lie she had told, and all that wasforegone. 'The exact truth!' said he. 'Very few people do speakthe exact truth. I have given up hoping for it. Miss Hale, haveyou no explanation to give me? You must perceive what I cannotbut think.'

Margaret was silent. She was wondering whether an explanation ofany kind would be consistent with her loyalty to Frederick.

'Nay,' said he, 'I will ask no farther. I may be puttingtemptation in your way. At present, believe me, your secret issafe with me. But you run great risks, allow me to say, in beingso indiscreet. I am now only speaking as a friend of yourfather's: if I had any other thought or hope, of course that isat an end. I am quite disinterested.'

'I am aware of that,' said Margaret, forcing herself to speak inan indifferent, careless way. 'I am aware of what I must appearto you, but the secret is another person's, and I cannot explainit without doing him harm.'

'I have not the slightest wish to pry into the gentleman'ssecrets,' he said, with growing anger. 'My own interest in youis--simply that of a friend. You may not believe me, Miss Hale,but it is--in spite of the persecution I'm afraid I threatenedyou with at one time--but that is all given up; all passed away.You believe me, Miss Hale?'

'Yes,' said Margaret, quietly and sadly.

'Then, really, I don't see any occasion for us to go on walkingtogether. I thought, perhaps you might have had something to say,but I see we are nothing to each other. If you're quiteconvinced, that any foolish passion on my part is entirely over,I will wish you good afternoon.' He walked off very hastily.

'What can he mean?' thought Margaret,--'what could he mean byspeaking so, as if I were always thinking that he cared for me,when I know he does not; he cannot. His mother will have said allthose cruel things about me to him. But I won't care for him. Isurely am mistress enough of myself to control this wild,strange, miserable feeling, which tempted me even to betray myown dear Frederick, so that I might but regain his goodopinion--the good opinion of a man who takes such pains to tellme that I am nothing to him. Come poor little heart! be cheeryand brave. We'll be a great deal to one another, if we are thrownoff and left desolate.'

Her father was almost startled by her merriment this afternoon.She talked incessantly, and forced her natural humour to anunusual pitch; and if there was a tinge of bitterness in much ofwhat she said; if her accounts of the old Harley Street set werea little sarcastic, her father could not bear to check her, as hewould have done at another time--for he was glad to see her shakeoff her cares. In the middle of the evening, she was called downto speak to Mary Higgins; and when she came back, Mr. Haleimagined that he saw traces of tears on her cheeks. But thatcould not be, for she brought good news--that Higgins had gotwork at Mr. Thornton's mill. Her spirits were damped, at anyrate, and she found it very difficult to go on talking at all,much more in the wild way that she had done. For some days herspirits varied strangely; and her father was beginning to beanxious about her, when news arrived from one or two quartersthat promised some change and variety for her. Mr. Hale receiveda letter from Mr. Bell, in which that gentleman volunteered avisit to them; and Mr. Hale imagined that the promised society ofhis old Oxford friend would give as agreeable a turn toMargaret's ideas as it did to his own. Margaret tried to take aninterest in what pleased her father; but she was too languid tocare about any Mr. Bell, even though he were twenty times hergodfather. She was more roused by a letter from Edith, full ofsympathy about her aunt's death; full of details about herself,her husband, and child; and at the end saying, that as theclimate did not suit, the baby, and as Mrs. Shaw was talking ofreturning to England, she thought it probable that Captain Lennoxmight sell out, and that they might all go and live again in theold Harley Street house; which, however, would seem veryincomplete with-out Margaret. Margaret yearned after that oldhouse, and the placid tranquillity of that old well-ordered,monotonous life. She had found it occasionally tiresome while itlasted; but since then she had been buffeted about, and felt soexhausted by this recent struggle with herself, that she thoughtthat even stagnation would be a rest and a refreshment. So shebegan to look towards a long visit to the Lennoxes, on theirreturn to England, as to a point--no, not of hope--but ofleisure, in which she could regain her power and command overherself. At present it seemed to her as if all subjects tendedtowards Mr. Thornton; as if she could not for-get him with allher endeavours. If she went to see the Higginses, she heard ofhim there; her father had resumed their readings together, andquoted his opinions perpetually; even Mr. Bell's visit broughthis tenant's name upon the tapis; for he wrote word that hebelieved he must be occupied some great part of his time with Mr.Thornton, as a new lease was in preparation, and the terms of itmust be agreed upon.

CHAPTER XL

OUT OF TUNE

'I have no wrong, where I can claim no right,Naught ta'en me fro, where I have nothing had,Yet of my woe I cannot so be quite;Namely, since that another may he gladWith that, that thus in sorrow makes me sad.'WYATT.

Margaret had not expected much pleasure to herself from Mr.Bell's visit--she had only looked forward to it on her father'saccount, but when her godfather came, she at once fell into themost natural position of friendship in the world. He said she hadno merit in being what she was, a girl so entirely after his ownheart; it was an hereditary power which she had, to walk in andtake possession of his regard; while she, in reply, gave him muchcredit for being so fresh and young under his Fellow's cap andgown.

'Fresh and young in warmth and kindness, I mean. I'm afraid Imust own, that I think your opinions are the oldest and mustiestI have met with this long time.'

'Hear this daughter of yours, Hale Her residence in Milton hasquite corrupted her. She's a democrat, a red republican, a memberof the Peace Society, a socialist--'

'Papa, it's all because I'm standing up for the progress ofcommerce. Mr. Bell would have had it keep still at exchangingwild-beast skins for acorns.'

'No, no. I'd dig the ground and grow potatoes. And I'd shave thewild-beast skins and make the wool into broad cloth. Don'texaggerate, missy. But I'm tired of this bustle. Everybodyrushing over everybody, in their hurry to get rich.'

'It is not every one who can sit comfortably in a set of collegerooms, and let his riches grow without any exertion of his own.No doubt there is many a man here who would be thankful if hisproperty would increase as yours has done, without his taking anytrouble about it,' said Mr. Hale.

'I don't believe they would. It's the bustle and the strugglethey like. As for sitting still, and learning from the past, orshaping out the future by faithful work done in a propheticspirit--Why! Pooh! I don't believe there's a man in Milton whoknows how to sit still; and it is a great art.'

'Milton people, I suspect, think Oxford men don't know how tomove. It would be a very good thing if they mixed a little more.'

'It might be good for the Miltoners. Many things might be goodfor them which would be very disagreeable for other people.'

'Are you not a Milton man yourself?' asked Margaret. 'I shouldhave thought you would have been proud of your town.'

'I confess, I don't see what there is to be proud of If you'llonly come to Oxford, Margaret, I will show you a place to gloryin.'

'Well!' said Mr. Hale, 'Mr. Thornton is coming to drink tea withus to-night, and he is as proud of Milton as you of Oxford. Youtwo must try and make each other a little more liberal-minded.'

'I don't want to be more liberal-minded, thank you,' said Mr.Bell.

'Is Mr. Thornton coming to tea, papa?' asked Margaret in a lowvoice.

'Either to tea or soon after. He could not tell. He told us notto wait.'

Mr. Thornton had determined that he would make no inquiry of hismother as to how far she had put her project into execution ofspeaking to Margaret about the impropriety of her conduct. Hefelt pretty sure that, if this interview took place, his mother'saccount of what passed at it would only annoy and chagrin him,though he would all the time be aware of the colouring which itreceived by passing through her mind. He shrank from hearingMargaret's very name mentioned; he, while he blamed her--while hewas jealous of her--while he renounced her--he loved her sorely,in spite of himself. He dreamt of her; he dreamt she came dancingtowards him with outspread arms, and with a lightness and gaietywhich made him loathe her, even while it allured him. But theimpression of this figure of Margaret--with all Margaret'scharacter taken out of it, as completely as if some evil spirithad got possession of her form--was so deeply stamped upon hisimagination, that when he wakened he felt hardly able to separatethe Una from the Duessa; and the dislike he had to the latterseemed to envelope and disfigure the former Yet he was too proudto acknowledge his weakness by avoiding the sight of her. Hewould neither seek an opportunity of being in her company noravoid it. To convince himself of his power of self-control, helingered over every piece of business this afternoon; he forcedevery movement into unnatural slowness and deliberation; and itwas consequently past eight o'clock before he reached Mr. Hale's.Then there were business arrangements to be transacted in thestudy with Mr. Bell; and the latter kept on, sitting over thefire, and talking wearily, long after all business wastransacted, and when they might just as well have gone upstairs.But Mr. Thornton would not say a word about moving theirquarters; he chafed and chafed, and thought Mr. Bell a most prosycompanion; while Mr. Bell returned the compliment in secret, byconsidering Mr. Thornton about as brusque and curt a fellow as hehad ever met with, and terribly gone off both in intelligence andmanner. At last, some slight noise in the room above suggestedthe desirableness of moving there. They found Margaret with aletter open before her, eagerly discussing its contents with herfather. On the entrance of the gentlemen, it was immediately putaside; but Mr. Thornton's eager senses caught some few words ofMr. Hale's to Mr. Bell.

'A letter from Henry Lennox. It makes Margaret very hopeful.'

Mr. Bell nodded. Margaret was red as a rose when Mr. Thorntonlooked at her. He had the greatest mind in the world to get upand go out of the room that very instant, and never set foot inthe house again.

'We were thinking,' said Mr. Hale, 'that you and Mr. Thornton hadtaken Margaret's advice, and were each trying to convert theother, you were so long in the study.'

'And you thought there would be nothing left of us but anopinion, like the Kilkenny cat's tail. Pray whose opinion did youthink would have the most obstinate vitality?'

Mr. Thornton had not a notion what they were talking about, anddisdained to inquire. Mr. Hale politely enlightened him.

'Mr. Thornton, we were accusing Mr. Bell this morning of a kindof Oxonian mediaeval bigotry against his native town; andwe--Margaret, I believe--suggested that it would do him good toassociate a little with Milton manufacturers.'

'I beg your pardon. Margaret thought it would do the Miltonmanufacturers good to associate a little more with Oxford men.Now wasn't it so, Margaret?'

'I believe I thought it would do both good to see a little moreof the other,--I did not know it was my idea any more thanpapa's.'

'And so you see, Mr. Thornton, we ought to have been improvingeach other down-stairs, instead of talking over vanished familiesof Smiths and Harrisons. However, I am willing to do my part now.I wonder when you Milton men intend to live. All your lives seemto be spent in gathering together the materials for life.'

'By living, I suppose you mean enjoyment.'

'Yes, enjoyment,--I don't specify of what, because I trust. weshould both consider mere pleasure as very poor enjoyment.'

'I would rather have the nature of the enjoyment defined.'

'Well! enjoyment of leisure--enjoyment of the power and influencewhich money gives. You are all striving for money. What do youwant it for?'

Mr. Thornton was silent. Then he said, 'I really don't know. Butmoney is not what ~I~ strive for.'

'What then?'

'It is a home question. I shall have to lay myself open to such acatechist, and I am not sure that I am prepared to do it.'

'No!' said Mr. Hale; 'don't let us be personal in our catechism.You are neither of you representative men; you are each of youtoo individual for that.'

'I am not sure whether to consider that as a compliment or not. Ishould like to be the representative of Oxford, with its beautyand its learning, and its proud old history. What do you say,Margaret; ought I to be flattered?'

'I don't know Oxford. But there is a difference between being therepresentative of a city and the representative man of itsinhabitants.'

'Very true, Miss Margaret. Now I remember, you were against methis morning, and were quite Miltonian and manufacturing in yourpreferences.' Margaret saw the quick glance of surprise that Mr.Thornton gave her, and she was annoyed at the construction whichhe might put on this speech of Mr. Bell's. Mr. Bell went on--

'Ah! I wish I could show you our High Street--our RadcliffeSquare. I am leaving out our colleges, just as I give Mr.Thornton leave to omit his factories in speaking of the charms ofMilton. I have a right to abuse my birth-place. Remember I am aMilton man.

Mr. Thornton was annoyed more than he ought to have been at allthat Mr. Bell was saying. He was not in a mood for joking. Atanother time, he could have enjoyed Mr. Bell's half testycondemnation of a town where the life was so at variance withevery habit he had formed; but now, he was galled enough toattempt to defend what was never meant to be seriously attacked.

'Wait a little while,' said Mr. Thornton. 'Remember, we are of adifferent race from the Greeks, to whom beauty was everything,and to whom Mr. Bell might speak of a life of leisure and sereneenjoyment, much of which entered in through their outward senses.I don't mean to despise them, any more than I would ape them. ButI belong to Teutonic blood; it is little mingled in this part ofEngland to what it is in others; we retain much of theirlanguage; we retain more of their spirit; we do not look uponlife as a time for enjoyment, but as a time for action andexertion. Our glory and our beauty arise out of our inwardstrength, which makes us victorious over material resistance, andover greater difficulties still. We are Teutonic up here inDarkshire in another way. We hate to have laws made for us at adistance. We wish people would allow us to right ourselves,instead of continually meddling, with their imperfectlegislation. We stand up for self-government, and opposecentralisation.'

'In short, you would like the Heptarchy back again. Well, at anyrate, I revoke what I said this morning--that you Milton peopledid not reverence the past. You are regular worshippers of Thor.'

'If we do not reverence the past as you do in Oxford, it isbecause we want something which can apply to the present moredirectly. It is fine when the study of the past leads to aprophecy of the future. But to men groping in new circumstances,it would be finer if the words of experience could direct us howto act in what concerns us most intimately and immediately; whichis full of difficulties that must be encountered; and upon themode in which they are met and conquered--not merely pushed asidefor the time--depends our future. Out of the wisdom of the past,help us over the present. But no! People can speak of Utopia muchmore easily than of the next day's duty; and yet when that dutyis all done by others, who so ready to cry, "Fie, for shame!"'

'And all this time I don't see what you are talking about. Wouldyou Milton men condescend to send up your to-day's difficulty toOxford? You have not tried us yet.'

Mr. Thornton laughed outright at this. 'I believe I was talkingwith reference to a good deal that has been troubling us of late;I was thinking of the strikes we have gone through, which aretroublesome and injurious things enough, as I am finding to mycost. And yet this last strike, under which I am smarting, hasbeen respectable.'

'A respectable strike!' said Mr. Bell. 'That sounds as if youwere far gone in the worship of Thor.'

Margaret felt, rather than saw, that Mr. Thornton was chagrinedby the repeated turning into jest of what he was feeling as veryserious. She tried to change the conversation from a subjectabout which one party cared little, while, to the other, it wasdeeply, because personally, interesting. She forced herself tosay something.

'Edith says she finds the printed calicoes in Corfu better andcheaper than in London.'

'Does she?' said her father. 'I think that must be one of Edith'sexaggerations. Are you sure of it, Margaret?'

'I am sure she says so, papa.'

'Then I am sure of the fact,' said Mr. Bell. 'Margaret, I go sofar in my idea of your truthfulness, that it shall cover yourcousin's character. I don't believe a cousin of yours couldexaggerate.'

'Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth?' said Mr. Thornton,bitterly. The moment he had done so, he could have bitten histongue out. What was he? And why should he stab her with hershame in this way? How evil he was to-night; possessed byill-humour at being detained so long from her; irritated by themention of some name, because he thought it belonged to a moresuccessful lover; now ill-tempered because he had been unable tocope, with a light heart, against one who was trying, by gay andcareless speeches, to make the evening pass pleasantly away,--thekind old friend to all parties, whose manner by this time mightbe well known to Mr. Thornton, who had been acquainted with himfor many years. And then to speak to Margaret as he had done! Shedid not get up and leave the room, as she had done in formerdays, when his abruptness or his temper had annoyed her. She satquite still, after the first momentary glance of grievedsurprise, that made her eyes look like some child's who has metwith an unexpected rebuff; they slowly dilated into mournful,reproachful sadness; and then they fell, and she bent over herwork, and did not speak again. But he could not help looking ather, and he saw a sigh tremble over her body, as if she quiveredin some unwonted chill. He felt as the mother would have done, inthe midst of 'her rocking it, and rating it,' had she been calledaway before her slow confiding smile, implying perfect trust inmother's love, had proved the renewing of its love. He gave shortsharp answers; he was uneasy and cross, unable to discern betweenjest and earnest; anxious only for a look, a word of hers, beforewhich to prostrate himself in penitent humility. But she neitherlooked nor spoke. Her round taper fingers flew in and out of hersewing, as steadily and swiftly as if that were the business ofher life. She could not care for him, he thought, or else thepassionate fervour of his wish would have forced her to raisethose eyes, if but for an instant, to read the late repentance inhis. He could have struck her before he left, in order that bysome strange overt act of rudeness, he might earn the privilegeof telling her the remorse that gnawed at his heart. It was wellthat the long walk in the open air wound up this evening for him.It sobered him back into grave resolution, that henceforth hewould see as little of her as possible,--since the very sight ofthat face arid form, the very sounds of that voice (like the softwinds of pure melody) had such power to move him from hisbalance. Well! He had known what love was--a sharp pang, a fierceexperience, in the midst of whose flames he was struggling! but,through that furnace he would fight his way out into the serenityof middle age,--all the richer and more human for having knownthis great passion.

When he had somewhat abruptly left the room, Margaret rose fromher seat, and began silently to fold up her work; The long seamswere heavy, and had an unusual weight for her languid arms. Theround lines in her face took a lengthened, straighter form, andher whole appearance was that of one who had gone through a dayof great fatigue. As the three prepared for bed, Mr. Bellmuttered forth a little condemnation of Mr. Thornton.

'I never saw a fellow so spoiled by success. He can't bear aword; a jest of any kind. Everything seems to touch on thesoreness of his high dignity. Formerly, he was as simple andnoble as the open day; you could not offend him, because he hadno vanity.'

'He is not vain now,' said Margaret, turning round from thetable, and speaking with quiet distinctness. 'To-night he has notbeen like himself Something must have annoyed him before he camehere.'

Mr. Bell gave her one of his sharp glances from above hisspectacles. She stood it quite calmly; but, after she had leftthe room, he suddenly asked,--

'Hale! did it ever strike you that Thornton and your daughterhave what the French call a tendresse for each other?'

'Never!' said Mr. Hale, first startled and then flurried by thenew idea. 'No, I am sure you are wrong. I am almost certain youare mistaken. If there is anything, it is all on Mr. Thornton'sside. Poor fellow! I hope and trust he is not thinking of her,for I am sure she would not have him.'

'Well! I'm a bachelor, and have steered clear of love affairs allmy life; so perhaps my opinion is not worth having. Or else Ishould say there were very pretty symptoms about her!'

'Then I am sure you are wrong,' said Mr. Hale. 'He may care forher, though she really has been almost rude to him at times. Butshe!--why, Margaret would never think of him, I'm sure! Such athing has never entered her head.'

'Entering her heart would do. But I merely threw out a suggestionof what might be. I dare say I was wrong. And whether I was wrongor right, I'm very sleepy; so, having disturbed your night's rest(as I can see) with my untimely fancies, I'll betake myself withan easy mind to my own.'

But Mr. Hale resolved that he would not be disturbed by any suchnonsensical idea; so he lay awake, determining not to think aboutit.

Mr. Bell took his leave the next day, bidding Margaret look tohim as one who had a right to help and protect her in all hertroubles, of whatever nature they might be. To Mr. Hale hesaid,--

'That Margaret of yours has gone deep into my heart. Take care ofher, for she is a very precious creature,--a great deal too goodfor Milton,--only fit for Oxford, in fact. The town, I mean; notthe men. I can't match her yet. When I can, I shall bring myyoung man to stand side by side with your young woman, just asthe genie in the Arabian Nights brought Prince Caralmazan tomatch with the fairy's Princess Badoura.'

'I beg you'll do no such thing. Remember the misfortunes thatensued; and besides, I can't spare Margaret.'

'No; on second thoughts, we'll have her to nurse us ten yearshence, when we shall be two cross old invalids. Seriously, Hale!I wish you'd leave Milton; which is a most unsuitable place foryou, though it was my recommendation in the first instance. Ifyou would; I'd swallow my shadows of doubts, and take a collegeliving; and you and Margaret should come and live at theparsonage--you to be a sort of lay curate, and take the unwashedoff my hands; and she to be our housekeeper--the village LadyBountiful--by day; and read us to sleep in the evenings. I couldbe very happy in such a life. What do you think of it?'

'Never!' said Mr. Hale, decidedly. 'My one great change has beenmade and my price of suffering paid. Here I stay out my life; andhere will I be buried, and lost in the crowd.'

'I don't give up my plan yet. Only I won't bait you with it anymore just now. Where's the Pearl? Come, Margaret, give me afarewell kiss; and remember, my dear, where you may find a truefriend, as far as his capability goes. You are my child,Margaret. Remember that, and 'God bless you!'

So they fell back into the monotony of the quiet life they wouldhenceforth lead. There was no invalid to hope and fear about;even the Higginses--so long a vivid interest--seemed to havereceded from any need of immediate thought. The Boucher children,left motherless orphans, claimed what of Margaret's care shecould bestow; and she went pretty often to see Mary Higgins, whohad charge of them. The two families were living in one house:the elder children were at humble schools, the younger ones weretended, in Mary's absence at her work, by the kind neighbourwhose good sense had struck Margaret at the time of Boucher'sdeath. Of course she was paid for her trouble; and indeed, in allhis little plans and arrangements for these orphan children,Nicholas showed a sober judgment, and regulated method ofthinking, which were at variance with his former more eccentricjerks of action. He was so steady at his work, that Margaret didnot often see him during these winter months; but when she did,she saw that he winced away from any reference to the father ofthose children, whom he had so fully and heartily taken under hiscare. He did not speak easily of Mr. Thornton.

'To tell the truth,' said he, 'he fairly bamboozles me. He's twochaps. One chap I knowed of old as were measter all o'er. T'otherchap hasn't an ounce of measter's flesh about him. How them twochaps is bound up in one body, is a craddy for me to find out.I'll not be beat by it, though. Meanwhile he comes here prettyoften; that's how I know the chap that's a man, not a measter.And I reckon he's taken aback by me pretty much as I am by him;for he sits and listens and stares, as if I were some strangebeast newly caught in some of the zones. But I'm none daunted. Itwould take a deal to daunt me in my own house, as he sees. And Itell him some of my mind that I reckon he'd ha' been the betterof hearing when he were a younger man.'

'And does he not answer you?' asked Mr. Hale.

'Well! I'll not say th' advantage is all on his side, for all Itake credit for improving him above a bit. Sometimes he says arough thing or two, which is not agreeable to look at at first,but has a queer smack o' truth in it when yo' come to chew it.He'll be coming to-night, I reckon, about them childer'sschooling. He's not satisfied wi' the make of it, and wants fort' examine 'em.'

'What are they'--began Mr. Hale; but Margaret, touching his arm,showed him her watch.

'It is nearly seven,' she said. 'The evenings are getting longernow. Come, papa.' She did not breathe freely till they were somedistance from the house. Then, as she became more calm, shewished that she had not been in so great a hurry; for, somehow,they saw Mr. Thornton but very seldom now; and he might have cometo see Higgins, and for the old friendship's sake she should liketo have seen him to-night.

Yes! he came very seldom, even for the dull cold purpose oflessons. Mr. Hale was disappointed in his pupil's lukewarmnessabout Greek literature, which had but a short time ago so greatan interest for him. And now it often happened that a hurriednote from Mr. Thornton would arrive, just at the last moment,saying that he was so much engaged that he could not come to readwith Mr. Hale that evening. And though other pupils had takenmore than his place as to time, no one was like his first scholarin Mr. Hale's heart. He was depressed and sad at this partialcessation of an intercourse which had become dear to him; and heused to sit pondering over the reason that could have occasionedthis change.

He startled Margaret, one evening as she sate at her work, bysuddenly asking:

'Margaret! had you ever any reason for thinking that Mr. Thorntoncared for you?'

He almost blushed as he put this question; but Mr. Bell's scoutedidea recurred to him, and the words were out of his mouth beforehe well knew what he was about.

Margaret did not answer immediately; but by the bent drooping ofher head, he guessed what her reply would be.

'Yes; I believe--oh papa, I should have told you.' And shedropped her work, and hid her face in her hands.

'No, dear; don't think that I am impertinently curious. I am sureyou would have told me if you had felt that you could return hisregard. Did he speak to you about it?'

No answer at first; but by-and-by a little gentle reluctant'Yes.'

'And you refused him?'

A long sigh; a more helpless, nerveless attitude, and another'Yes.' But before her father could speak, Margaret lifted up herface, rosy with some beautiful shame, and, fixing her eyes uponhim, said:

'Now, papa, I have told you this, and I cannot tell you more; andthen the whole thing is so painful to me; every word and actionconnected with it is so unspeakably bitter, that I cannot bear tothink of it. Oh, papa, I am sorry to have lost you this friend,but I could not help it--but oh! I am very sorry.' She sate downon the ground, and laid her head on his knees.

'A little; but he took it into his head that you--how shall I sayit?--that you were not ungraciously disposed towards Mr.Thornton. I knew that could never be. I hoped the whole thing wasbut an imagination; but I knew too well what your real feelingswere to suppose that you could ever like Mr. Thornton in thatway. But I am very sorry.'

They were very quiet and still for some minutes. But, on strokingher cheek in a caressing way soon after, he was almost shocked tofind her face wet with tears. As he touched her, she sprang up,and smiling with forced brightness, began to talk of the Lennoxeswith such a vehement desire to turn the conversation, that Mr.Hale was too tender-hearted to try to force it back into the oldchannel.

'To-morrow--yes, to-morrow they will be back in Harley Street.Oh, how strange it will be! I wonder what room they will makeinto the nursery? Aunt Shaw will be happy with the baby. FancyEdith a mamma! And Captain Lennox--I wonder what he will do withhimself now he has sold out!'

'I'll tell you what,' said her father, anxious to indulge her inthis fresh subject of interest, 'I think I must spare you for afortnight just to run up to town and see the travellers. Youcould learn more, by half an hour's conversation with Mr. HenryLennox, about Frederick's chances, than in a dozen of theseletters of his; so it would, in fact, be uniting business withpleasure.'

'No, papa, you cannot spare me, and what's more, I won't bespared.' Then after a pause, she added: 'I am losing hope sadlyabout Frederick; he is letting us down gently, but I can see thatMr. Lennox himself has no hope of hunting up the witnesses underyears and years of time. No,' said she, 'that bubble was verypretty, and very dear to our hearts; but it has burst like manyanother; and we must console ourselves with being glad thatFrederick is so happy, and with being a great deal to each other.So don't offend me by talking of being able to spare me, papa,for I assure you you can't.'

But the idea of a change took root and germinated in Margaret'sheart, although not in the way in which her father proposed it atfirst. She began to consider how desirable something of the kindwould be to her father, whose spirits, always feeble, now becametoo frequently depressed, and whose health, though he nevercomplained, had been seriously affected by his wife's illness anddeath. There were the regular hours of reading with his pupils,but that all giving and no receiving could no longer be calledcompanion-ship, as in the old days when Mr. Thornton came tostudy under him. Margaret was conscious of the want under whichhe was suffering, unknown to himself; the want of a man'sintercourse with men. At Helstone there had been perpetualoccasions for an interchange of visits with neighbouring